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At Land’s end,

a pier,

paint retreating.

Loud, disfigured music,

in devil’s den,

ghost under their spell.

Trying to fool,

the one-eye Jack.

Slots and sluts,

The beach,

polluted,

with broken glass

syringes,

and cigarette buds.

No soul to be seen.

Except the homeless,

trading in empty bottles,

for a full one.

My younger years,

I carried to the grave,

on a cliff,

the waves of at cruel see,

telling me to jump.

Yeah,

it’s a dump,

at Land’s end.

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